


Pizza Schmizza

by Frostfire



Category: Psych
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Gen, Pineapples, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-31
Updated: 2009-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-04 15:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10282466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostfire/pseuds/Frostfire
Summary: What if Shawn found something to keep him interested before his stroke of genius in the Santa Barbara Police Department?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was for [](http://liviapenn.livejournal.com/profile)[liviapenn](http://liviapenn.livejournal.com/) on her birthday, because she deserves it. *hearts!!!*

So it totally wasn’t even Shawn’s idea, really.

He’d just been minding his own business, engaged in his ongoing afterhours project to create the Perfect Pizza, when his creative process was interrupted by a _godawful_ racket, sort of like a car backfiring as it suicide-rammed Godzilla—and really, faced with a possible Godzilla sighting, the only thing Shawn could do was investigate.

He brought a pineapple in case he needed aweapon, hoping he wouldn’t because blunt-force-trauma-pineapple wouldn’t be the tastiest pizza topping.

Although, hey, maybe The Pizza Place could do an action-movie, Law-and-Order run of pizzas, sort of a concept pizza; he’d have to suggest that to Lester the manager tomorrow—

Now, though, he was investigating, on his way toward something that might be some combination of Godzilla and/or backfiring car—or the more prosaic though no less scary explanation—

Shawn rounded the corner, and saw no Godzilla, no cars, and a lot of blood. Specifically, blood from a dead guy. There was also a live guy, pointing a gun. At Shawn.

Shawn’s dad had explained very carefully what he was supposed to do if he ever ended up in a situation like this, but frankly Shawn hadn’t been listening very hard any of the twenty-seven times it had happened, so instead he blinked and said, “Dude, did you just kill that guy?”

Stupid question, of course (his dad would be yelling at him right now—well, okay, his dad would have hauled him out of the room with brute force by now) but Shawn was going to blame first-time-I-saw-a-real-dead-guy-with-blood-and-everything jitters and let himself off.

“Who the fuck are you?” said the guy with the gun.

“Innocent bystander,” said Shawn quickly, “and let me tell you why you should absolutely _not shoot that gun_ —this is just my day job, I’m actually a monk, over at Our Lady of Holy Jesus’ Sorrow and Tears, and I’m taking a vow of silence very early tomorrow morning—” and kept going, who knew what the hell he was saying, but the muscles around the guy’s eyes were tightening, he was glancing at the dead body, at Shawn, at the phone on the wall—

Shawn looked at the guy’s gun. He looked at his pineapple.

When the guy’s finger started to tighten on the trigger, Shawn threw the pineapple at his head, and himself to the floor, sort of in the dead guy’s corner—great, blood all over his The Pizza Place shirt, that was going to be awesome. There was a shot— _not_ , Shawn’s brain informed him in his dad’s voice, _a car backfiring, Shawn, you hear those in the street all the time, you know what they sound like_ —and then the meaty _thunk_ as the pineapple hit home.

 _That totally could have been Godzilla_ , Shawn told the dad-voice, and then, as the guy (also on the floor now; Shawn was a mean shot with a pineapple) raised his gun to fire a second time, Shawn finally yanked the dead guy’s gun from his limp and bloody fingers and fired.

Homicidal guy fell back, a neat hole in his forehead, dead.

“Okay,” said Shawn after a minute, “okay. I just killed a guy.” He breathed in deep, like he’d learned as a yoga instructor trainee, smelled blood and tomato sauce, breathed out again.

So this was going to be fine. Clear case of self-defense. Not that there were any witnesses. Not that the cops were going to _believe_ that. Fuck, he didn’t want to talk to the cops.

He could clean the place up. He could even make it like he was never here if he had to, although he _wouldn’t_ have to, because he _worked_ here. And—oh, shit—after a double murder in his place of work, he was going to have to talk to the cops anyway. And he’d closed today, so he could stay late for his nefarious purposes. Seeming less nefarious by the minute, now.

But he’d been the last one here, he was going to be the first suspect, _awesome_. And even if they cleared him at first, he wouldn’t be able to quit without drawing attention to himself—he’d only been planning to _stay_ a couple more days, until he got his pizza recipe finalized.

“This sucks,” Shawn said, staring at the bodies, who stared right back. Now he’d have to stay on for, like, _weeks_ , unless he wanted serious police attention.

God, they’d probably call his _dad_.

Okay, fine. He’d just get rid of both of the bodies, clean up the whole place, bleach the floor, dispose of the guns. And the pineapple. Make it like nothing happened.

Shawn stared around the kitchen. He hadn’t even cleaned up his _room_ when he was a kid.

“I miss Gus,” he sighed at Dead Guy Two.

***

“Gus understands— _logistics_ ,” Shawn grunted, hauling Dead Guy 2 onto a tarp. “He knows how to _plan_ , and he—” _heave_ “— _always_ got Outstanding in ‘attention span’ in school.” Heave. “Always cleaned his room, too.” He contemplated the body.

“Of course, if Gus were here, I’d also be cleaning up, like, seven vomit puddles,” he said. “So there’s that.” He went to wash the blood off his hands and find the bleach.

***

Halfway through, it occurred to him that he should probably check to see who the first dead guy was. If he was a cop—no, okay, who was he kidding? That guy was definitely not a cop, unless he was better at undercover than any live cop Shawn had ever met.

He rifled through the guy’s pockets. Nothing, nothing, nothing, slip of paper with a phone number, cash, nothing.

Shawn sat back on his heels, frowning. “Who has _no_ I.D.?”

He looked at the paper in his hand.

“Holy shit. I’m in a _detective story_!”

***

It was ringing—one, two, three—“This had better not be the girl you met at the bar this evening,” Shawn muttered, then squinted at the handwriting and added, “or the _guy_ you—Hello? Yes, uh, I’m afraid your associate has had an accident.”

He held his breath. “ _Shit_ ,” said the gravelly voice on the other end—no confusion, no wrong numbers. Shawn wanted to do a little dance, but the pay phone cord wasn’t really long enough. He danced a little in place, though, because holy _shit_ , he _was_ living in a detective story. The guy was talking to someone else, a little muffled—probably had his hand over the receiver, ha—“Jones bought it.”

“Shit,” said another voice, fainter. “Wait, is that the _mark_ on the phone?”

Shawn’s eyes went wide. “Uh, I don’t know,” said the voice, and then it came back full volume. “Who is this?”

“An interested third party,” said Shawn, trying to call up every hit-man-themed movie he’d ever seen, and only managing _Grosse Pointe Blank_ , which was less than helpful.

“Oh yeah?” said the gravelly voice. “Well, if you’re so _interested_ , maybe you can tell us if our guy managed to—take care of his business, before his accident.”

“Oh,” said Shawn airily,” he was a little too slow, but don’t worry about it. I took care of it for him.”

A second of silence, more conversation that Shawn couldn’t catch. The dad-voice was in the back of his head, screaming that this was a _really bad idea, Shawn, what the hell do you think you’re doing?!_ But it wasn’t like he didn’t have practice tuning _that_ out.

The gravelly voice came back and said, “I guess you’re calling because you want Jones’ fee, then.”

Shawn almost squeaked into the phone, but turned it into a manly, suggestive cough instead. “Since I did the work, it seems—logical,” he said. And if there was one thing he remembered from the movies, it was that hit men got _tons of money_.

Another minute of silence, and then the guy said, “Okay, I’m going to give you a time and a place, and you’ll come there alone, got it?”

Shawn listened, and wrote the time and place down, and hung up. And then he jumped up and down for a couple of minutes. And then he went back to The Pizza Place to finish cleaning up—he had an _awesome_ idea for disposing of the bodies, but he thought he might keep the guns for himself. He should probably bring one to the meeting, in case the ‘come alone’ schtick was a setup.

He bet _this_ was a job he wouldn’t want to quit after three days.


End file.
